The Basics in Bubonic Biology
by giggling-at-the-crime-scene
Summary: As the Black Death sweeps through Britain, John and Sherlock collide to find a cure for the fatal disease...what will happen? Johnlock in the future.
1. Chapter 1

London, 1585

'There appears to be a distinct link between cleanliness and the chances of one being infected by the plague. If one doesn't dabble in the festering waste of themselves and others, removes themselves from situations in which they are exposed to rats and lives in calm, quiet, clean seclusion, one is much less likely to develop the disease.'

John read the print over and over. He was surprised this was even allowed in the paper. It made perfect sense, of course, but it's a risky thing to do. He followed the text down, 'An extract taken from the upcoming paper, 'The Basics of Bubonic Biology', penned by Sherlock Holmes'. The name was new to John's eyes.

Headed towards the tavern, which was frequented by half the people who had been there the week before, John made for the bar and ordered a tankard of mead. He was joined moments later by Michael Stamford. It was a miracle that the childhood friends were both still alive.

"How are you keeping, John?"

"What you mean other than constantly worrying I could wake up with boils the size of my fist on my neck tomorrow morning? Oh yes, I'm dandy!"

"Ah you see! Humour in times of hardship...you're the kind of man that'll get us through!"

"No, I'm the kind of man who is frustrated by the people around me who believe that smearing themselves in their own urine or rubbing chickens on their boils will cure them."

"You still living up on Elms Street? I heard your landlord got caught by the disease?"

"Yeah, he went quite quick really. Left his son and sole heir to evict me. 'Dad was always too soft on you,' he said, 'too soft to be a landlord, better he's gone really.' Bastard..."

"I don't suppose you'd want somewhere to stay?"

"No I think I'll test the idea that living in the sewers prevents you from getting the disease."

"So yes?"

"Please. You needn't put me up in your house. Your wife wouldn't be too happy."

"Aha, that's true but I met a friend earlier today who was put in a similar situation although his landlord died in...different circumstances."

"Different circumstances?"

"Yes...he was, er, murdered whilst he slept. Needless to say his wife was not impressed but nonetheless my friend is as homeless as you. I'll take you to meet him."

"Well," John said, downing the last part of his mead, "what do I have to lose?"

Sherlock was sat on the floor of the town hall, eyes closed in thought, when Michael walked in. He had with him, by the wearing on his leather satchel, tired eyes and heavy sigh, a doctor who was as fed up with the current state of affairs as Sherlock.

"Who've you brought to me, Michael?"

"This is my recently evicted friend, John Watson. I thought he and you could escape off to a house together."

"I need to stay here to complete my research."

"Research?" John chipped in quiet as ever.

"Yes about the plague. The daft bugger thinks it's caused by dirt and not God!"

"You're the one from the paper?!" John asked in disbelief.

Sherlock was almost surprised the man could read but he hid his surprise as quickly as it struck him. A relatively well-educated doctor. Not many of them around, well less so than there were before.

"What do you think about the idea, doctor?"

"Well personally I feel it mak- excuse me? Did you say doctor?"

"You are a doctor, aren't you." It was a statement, not a question so John continued.

"How did you know I was a doctor?"

"The same way you know the sky is blue and I know that the plague was caused by something other than any God."

"Careful what you say Sherlock, never know when The Lord will be listening."

"I'll bear that in mind, Michael. Dr Watson, what did you think about my theory?"

John could laugh at the tension in the air. At least it felt like tension, who knew what else was flying about in it.

"Well, it does make rather a lot of sense. I mean why should an all loving God inflict such suffering onto u-"

"As recompense for sins, John. Christ died for our sins but we have committed too many for he alone to bear so God must punish us."

"So the four-year-old child I saw not yesterday, clinging onto life like the tattered doll in her hands was being punished? For what, Michael? For Eve eating a piece of fruit all those years ago? For the people that Noah left to drown in order to cleanse the world? There has to be some other reason!"

A stunned silence fell on the room which seemed to accentuate both the smirk on Sherlock's face and the blush tickling John's cheeks.

"That's blasphemous...you're lucky I was the only one to hear that else you'd be hanged."

"You're right...you have my apologies."

"Well, John, you're about the only person in this city to believe me so I should like to offer a contract in which you can help me gather further evidence to support my claims and have a place to stay. I know a place not far from here and I hate to pull strings but it's the only place sanitary enough for me to work. Come along."

Sherlock gathered his coat and books before walking towards and out of the door.

"You'll get along just fine." Michael said with an enthused pat on the back before wandering out the back door back towards the tavern.

John was alone in the town hall with nothing but candle light as he thought through his options. No Sherlock means no home, no job and likely death. Sherlock means a home, a job and a depleted chance of contracting anything.

He made his way towards the door to join Sherlock and found him stood on the steps waiting for him outside.

"You took your time."

"Yes, I was deciding if this would get me condemned but I suppose everything I've said in the last five minutes has sealed that fate so I thought what the hell? I'm going there anyway, might as well have fun."

"Good. Well the house is 221B Baker Street, a bit up market for me but my brother revels in giving me things I find pretentious."

"What research help will you need?"

"Well, you're a doctor and you have a mind beyond this time and despite your messy childhood I think you've turned out ok."

"Messy childhood?!"

"Ah! No! Retained issues I see...I'll work you through that. I'll just need you help me gather some things and on the rare occasion I need a second opinion, you have the honour of informing me of yours."

"So what do you think causes the Plague then?" John asked as they made their way up to the doorway of 221B.

"I believe it is a creature too small to see with the naked eye but with certain instruments, they are greatly magnified and fully observable. I trust you have all your belongings in your bag? You can have that room. I have the one across the hall."

Then John was left alone again, in an alien household, with a strange dark-haired man and a new, unfamiliar need for adventure.


	2. Chapter 2

John was used to putrid stenches but nothing really compared to the smell of the decomposing and sewers. He had accompanied Sherlock who had requested his help with research.

"Here should be fine." Sherlock said, casting an eye over the heap of flesh that, from the clothing, appeared to have once been a clergyman. He needed to get to the root of the problem and the sewer seemed an ideal place to start.

John was disgusted, "What on earth could you need from down here?" he said, gritting his teeth, as if that would stop the smell permeating his nose.

"Rats, John, rats. They're everywhere, they know everything, where there is food, where there is drink, where there is shelter."

"Your point being?" John had not been awoken in the late hours of the night to sneak into a sewer clogged with bodies and the odours of decay to be faced with cryptic clues.

"The disease isn't just in one place, it's everywhere! Like the rats!"

"So you're going to speak to the rats?"

Sherlock's disgruntled look was enough to confirm John's idiocy.

"Yes, John, and then I'll invite them back for tea! There are two types of rat in London; brown and black, so in order to complete my experiment and thus research we will need to capture three of each. Try to vary their size and try not to get bitten by them or covered in too much filth. I'll get the brown ones. Put them in here when you catch them," Sherlock said, passing John a wicker cage, "I'll meet you back at Baker Street when you have them."

Sherlock turned to go rat hunting down the opposite passage when John asked, "Surely it would be better if we stuck together? What if one of us is caught? Or if one of us can't find our way back here to get out? And we'd likely catch the rats quicker as a pair, two pairs of hands being better than one and all that!"

Sherlock's eyes were vacant for a moment before said, "I suppose it could be easier." as he set off down his original path.

Within minutes, their eyes had adjusted to the gloom of the sewer and they began scouring around them for the rats.

"So what is it you do when you aren't exploring plague infected sewers with your newly acquired housemate?"

"I like to think of myself as a consulting detective but I have other interests."

"Such as?"

"Most currently, microbiology."

"What exactly is microbi-" Sherlock turned to John.

"You don't have to make small talk with me. I know you don't want to be here at the moment." His eyes were glinting dangerously; did John think he'd been asked to be there because Sherlock was lonely? The flash of confusion that crossed John's face confirmed that Sherlock had reacted badly.

"No, no, I have a genuine interest! I'd like to know what I'm helping with."

Nobody had been genuinely interested before. Sherlock didn't know how to react but after an encouraging nod from John, he explained, "Microbiology is a branch of animal and plant study." Flicking his eyes towards John, Sherlock continued," I came across it whilst I was experimenting with magnifying lenses. There are beings that exist too small for us to see without aid from certain instruments and they are abundant in dirt and mud and some are very easily transported. I have designed a few machines which have the capacity to increase what we see by manipulating the magnifying lenses so that the image is 10 times as big as it ordinarily is."

"That's brilliant...really it is!"

The silence that followed brimmed with the flush on Sherlock's cheeks and John's self-contained curiosity about what these discoveries could mean for the future. The men were so wrapped up in themselves that it almost came as a surprise when an angry squeal erupted from under John's foot. This was followed by a less than manly snort of panic from John and a lightening fast grab at the animal, who was hastily disappearing into the darkness, from Sherlock. The black blob of fur was writhing in Sherlock's hands, which had somehow found their way into gloves, but had they not, the seething rodent would have ripped open Sherlock's hands and been off back down the passageway.

"Open your basket!" Sherlock yelled as John fumbled with the wicker work.

"I'm trying, just give me a second!" The basket was open now and no sooner than one second after the rat had been flung into it, the door was closed and locked again. After a minute or so, the squeals from the rat persisted.

"I've put some aromatic herbs at the bottom of the baskets which when inhaled, have a depressive effect in the body. Not enough to kill but enough to send into a deep sleep. That rat will soon give up and succumb."

No sooner had Sherlock dictated it, the rat fell silent but for the short rasping breaths he took.

"Well that's one less for you to find." Sherlock said as they carried on along the sewers.

Within an hour, only one more rat was needed to be captured. John was, at this point, quite used to the horrific stench which hung in the tunnels and had even caught two rats during their adventure in the sewage.

"When did you become interested in finding out about this disease? From what I can see, you're not a particularly religious man," John asked.

"Well, my mother became infected with the disease and upon her death, I swore I would find out exactly what had killed her." Sherlock's face was vacant but his voice stumbled a little.

"I'm sorry to hear that," John said, the empathy thick in his voice, "I lost my mother long ago. When she was young, she contracted sweating sickness and I don't believe it ever truly left her. She survived with it for the first bout when she was seven and suffered again when she was twelve. They say the disease was gone after that year but she was ill with similar symptoms after that, especially after she had Harriet and I," John paused for a moment, "it's a miracle she lived much longer after that all." John turned back to look at Sherlock. He was looking directly above John's shoulder. John turned slowly to see what Sherlock was staring at and saw a black rat, the sort they needed, crawling along a ledge at hand level. Fast as a viper, John grabbed the rat, who's dark fur was matted, tangled and infested with fleas. It squirmed in his grasp, shedding its coat into the creases of John's hands. It was soon with the other two rats at the bottom of John's basket and asleep.

"Did it bite you?" Sherlock worriedly asked.

"No I don't think so but it might have given me some of its fleas!" John laughed but Sherlock looked ashen before saying, "We've been down here long enough. We need to get back to Baker Street to wash, we've spent more time down here than intended."

Once they had resurfaced, it was three o'clock in the morning and the streets were abandoned but for the wagons of dead and moans of the dying. Sherlock ushered John back towards Baker Street and upon arrival, made John a hot bath infused with lavender and peppermint.

"Get in quick! We need to ensure we get all the fleas off you!" He pushed John towards the copper tub, not attempting to hide his urgency. He told John to get in as soon as he had undressed and was not to get out until he told him to do so. He then left to conduct his experiments. Sherlock left John in the bath for half an hour before returning to him. He realised he should have knocked on the door as soon as he walked in. John was dozing, his hands fixed on the rim of the tub and the coppery gleam was reflecting onto his face, making him appear younger. He looked very peaceful.

"I'm sorry I had to force you into this," Sherlock said all at once,"I had to double check the fleas that bit you weren't plague infected."

"What?" John was struggling to cover up his dignity, the bubbles that had been in the water weren't there anymore.

"I knew the rats were something to do with the problem I just didn't know it was the fleas."

"The fleas! Am I going to get the plague?!" John was feeling hysterical.

"I doubt it, at least from this encounter. Lavender and peppermint, whilst smelling delightful, are very good flea repellant so you should be safe for now. As my partner, you ought to see my research so once you have redressed in the clothes I've laid out for you, come down to my study immediately." Sherlock then turned on his heel and went back out of the door, closing with a flourish, leaving John in a relaxed, lavender-induced stupor. In ten minutes, John had come downstairs, redressed and smelling divine. He saw Sherlock hunched over his desk and heard the scribbling of quill on parchment. His desk was strewn with notes and illustrations of buboes, rashes and, in the freshest ink, fleas. Beside him was a curious device which seemed to be comprised of several magnifying lenses and delicate bronze rods, all composed to form a pyramid of lenses and posts. Either side of the instrument, in the sides facing Sherlock, were two cogs which, from what John could gauge, were attached to two of the lenses.

Sherlock saw John staring and said,"I call it a microscope. It's rather like a telescope except it allows you to see things very small instead of things very far away."


	3. Chapter 3

John had spent the past hour with Sherlock discussing the possibilities of the fleas and their connections to the deadly disease that was gripping so many around them.

"So when you said, in that quote in the paper, that people who are dirty are more likely to get the plague you just meant people who spend more time near rats?"

"Fleas specifically. I didn't know exactly what caused it though I had at least eleven possible ways people could be getting infected, excluding those dastardly ones the public have satisfied themselves with," Sherlock cast a look at John that could only have been his feeble attempt at pitying the deity, "anyway it's nearly five o'clock in the morning and I have arranged a meeting with one of the head scientists at the local University at 2, not that they get up to much there, too bothered about other less important stuff like the 'solar system' whatever that is, but I owe a visit to Gregory. I suggest we go to bed. I've finished my papers for now."

"Us? To bed?" John whispered, a little confused before shaking his head and blaming the lavender and peppermint for his softened brain and heading back to his room, not noticing Sherlock's cheeks flaming.

Hours passed and John felt much refreshed from his sleep and much sweeter from his bath. He went downstairs to the kitchen and buttered some bread for Sherlock and himself before going to find his dark-haired companion. Sherlock was still asleep, which was unusual as from John had gauged from the past three days, Sherlock worked every minute of the day and with unrelenting ferocity of the midday sun. He looked so peaceful when he slept, almost sweet. His mess of raven curls were splayed as haphazardly as his limbs which were entangled in the covers. Shafts of golden light that had slithered past the thin curtains danced on his skin, illuminating his face.

John left Sherlock's room with haste, closing the door abruptly enough to jolt Sherlock's mind back into the waking day but quiet enough to mask what had caused it. Sherlock was left in a sleepy daze which was blended with confusion as he gazed at the curtains to get a rough idea of the time. He then leapt up from the creaky mattress in a fluid movement, grabbing his topcoat and shutting the door much more loudly than John had, stirring the air causing the dust that had settled in a fine film on him bedside table to stir and float in amongst the sunbeams. He ran down the stairs having gathered his papers to see John sat at the table in the kitchen reading the paper.

"Come on, John! We can't hang around all day! Good Lord, what time is it? We have to meet Professor Lestrade!" He was half out of the door before John caught up to him.

"Where does this Lestrade fellow work anyway?"

"The London University of Law and Medicine although it's all rather primitive in there."

As they walked through the squaller and smog and sickness, they walked close together to avoid too much interference with any potentially contaminated people. An elderly woman came up to John and Sherlock as they turned onto the street of the university and took John's hand.

"An adventurer I see," she said, her shrunken milky eyes never leaving John's hand, "you will encounter danger soon but nothing you haven't before. Try to see clearly. Mine haven't worked for decades but I can still see," she let go of his hand, "here you are my dear, keep it safe and live a long life for many will not see the end of this." Then she pottered off, leaving a now alone John with a strange parcel in his hand.

It didn't take long for Sherlock to notice John's absence and head back along his path. Ducking to avoid the odd swinging limb of a plague victim in a wagon, Sherlock wound back along the street barely able to breath. The smell of the streets wasn't dissimilar to the one in the sewers but unlike that smell, the scents on the surface didn't run but were left to be pounded into the ground and fester. With the dying, dead and panic stricken everywhere, the stench was almost unbearable. Sherlock longed to be back at Baker Street in one of those baths with John...or just in the bath...a nice smelling bath that was John free...unless John wanted to share a bath with him, in which case Sherlock doubted he'd object but a furious blush found it's way onto his high cheekbones anyway. He was moving at pace through a city struck with illness; few people would notice and less would care. Then he saw John. He stuck out like a sore thumb, wandering about, casting an eye in the wrong places. Sherlock wondered how he ought to react.

"John! Come along!" As it turned out, his tongue made the decision for him, " we are meeting with Lestrade in five minutes!" Sherlock noticed how John tensed under his hand as he guided his companion through the streets and back towards the University. The building itself was large but rather unimpressive. Whilst it might have been the size of a well-funded church, any money that would have been spent on external decorations had obviously been put into someone's back pocket as windows were the only luxury the building was afforded.

Looking around, people were gathering by the door of the building, rioting, and others were scattered on the steps leading up to it. Here, Sherlock made a turn through the gate and then took John through the University gardens to where the rose bushes met the stone wall and drew back one of the plants. Behind it, a door no taller than a dog was visible and the dirt in front was scuffed up.

"Even though the university is expecting us, I doubt they'd be overly pleased if the swathes of plague infested peasants were released into their premises. Go through here and we'll come out in a small room by the main hall."

John knelt down to examine the door. The handle was solid and felt metallic under John's fingertips and he saw the drag marks on the stone floor. Then he lowered himself to the doorway's opening and dragged himself through. After two meters of hauling himself the passage way opened out into a small, dimly lit room. Behind him, her heard Sherlock scrabbling with the door and decided to get up. Seconds later John was stood in the small room with his back turned to Sherlock as he entered the room. For a moment it was silent and then John felt warm breath in his neck and hoped that it was Sherlock. He leant back a little, feeling for the frame of the taller man. The gasp that Sherlock made as John's hands felt around surprised them both and John immediately withdrew his hands, knocking his left one on the wall beside him.

"Come...ahem, come along, John." Sherlock said, his tone neutral but the pitch wavering. Sherlock's hands expertly navigated the walls and they were soon stood in the main reception area of the University. When the light fell into the room they had been in, John saw the shelves and brushes and decided it was a broom cupboard before following Sherlock into the massive hallway.

Any evidence that the building wasn't glorious on the outside was destroyed as John gaped at the chandeliers and marble floors.

"Because scientific discoveries are bound to be made in a place where funding is prized more than research," scoffed Sherlock when he saw John's eyes wandering.

"Back again?" A strained voice seemed to come from the end of the corridor, "we've missed you golden boy."

"Shut up Anderson!" Sherlock said, waving his hand indignantly at the secretary, and putting both elbows down on the desk that towered above the man. John looked at the man Sherlock was addressing and saw someone who's face you could forget, eyes scintillating with anger at his companion, fingers bony and too long for his arms.

"Is this a friend you've brought with you? Or an experiment?" His jibes at John were exhausting Sherlock's patience and this only worsened when Anderson turned to face John and ask,"did he force you to come? You can go home if you like."

"I don't suppose I'll be free of him there either to be honest considering we live together." John's face was hard but his eyes gleeful. Anderson seemed a little lost for a minute and Sherlock took advantage of this by asking him where he could find Lestrade.

"Up the stairs to the left, should be in his study." Anderson said, regaining himself a little.

"Oh and Anderson?" Sherlock wanted the man's full attention to restored.

"What?"

"Next time you and Mrs Donovan decide to have a little fun, try not to leave such incriminating evidence everywhere," handing him a silk handkerchief he'd picked up in the broom room with Anderson's initials on as well as some less innocuous proof of activity. Anderson's face puffed up, red and irritated, like the buboes found on all the disease riddled people outside the university as Sherlock and John skipped up the stairs to find Lestrade.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N Things start to happen a little faster now, Sherlock and Johnwise so you have been warned!

"That was brilliant," John said, giggling as they managed to turn down the left corridor, "did you see his face?!"

"Yes, well he and Mrs Donovan have a bit of a history and whilst one would think the odds of her husband dying would be rather massive, he is in fact fit as a fiddle."

"Much to Anderson's irritation I can imagine! Anyways, what's this Lestrade character like? Are you sure we can trust him?"

Sherlock stopped just short of the heavy wooden doors in front of them. A sign on the front stated it was the study of a 'Professor G Lestrade'. He turned to face his companion but John had moved closer to him and he wasn't prepared for the close proximity.

"I suppose we'll have to hope he is!" Sherlock said, shaking the pleasant feeling of John's breath on his face, before bursting through the doors without so much as a knock on the door.

The image that greeted them was one of a man who had aged through his work. Books and papers were strewn about the room in a way which was, if you were to study it, quite detailed, rather different, John noticed to the way Sherlock kept his works. Lestrade himself was seated on a large wooden chair behind a needlessly vast desk that whilst ornately decorated appeared to be quite old. He had a gentle face which lit up as he looked up to see who had interrupted his quiet contemplation.

"Sherlock! It's great to see you! Any ideas as to what could be causing this?" He made a wide, sweeping gesture to the window, outside which you could see the people trying to go about their daily lives.

"Yes I have a few. This is my partner, John. John, this is Professor Gregory Lestrade, his facilities here are always useful when I can't build them at home."

John extended a hand to Lestrade who took it warmly. The handshake was firm.

"What's he coaxed you in with? You should run away whilst you can!" Lestrade laughed and it became increasingly more evident to John that Sherlock didn't have a particularly broad circle of friends.

"Well, I'm currently living with him so I can't exactly escape to there!"

Lestrade laughed again and looked as if he was about to continue the conversation but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Here is my research," he said, handing the large leather binder to Lestrade, "I've completed many investigations and it's now evident that fleas are the cause of this."

"You think this whole thing is caused by fleas?"

"Yes, you would know why if you read my research." Lestrade appeared to have softened a bit with the lull in public consultations.

"As a doctor I can verify that what he says makes perfect sense." John said, trying his hand at a persuasive tone, and failing.

"A doctor? I thought you were his partner?"

"His what?" John asked, his voice squeaking a little. Sherlock wondered what he'd have to do to make John make that noise again and then shook the thought from his mind.

"So you aren't...?"

"No-er-ahm, no we're not." Sherlock recovered not so smoothly as he flushed seven shades of red. In a beautiful miscalculation of what Sherlock meant, Lestrade informed Sherlock that it would be fine if they were.

"We're not so we don't need your approval..."

"What are you talking about?" John asked who whilst pretending to not understand was still a little confused.

"Ah well these papers do seem interesting...I'll have a look through them and get back to you if you haven't contracted anything!" Lestrade said with a touch of embarrassment and finality, "I would stay but I have a meeting to go to. God bless if that means anything these days..." He looked at Sherlock before muttering, "if there is anything you need you know where I am," and putting a supportive hand on his arm.

He looked back at the two men who were both quite flustered, flashed a quick smile and wink at John before leaving them in a silence that was a little too warm. Sherlock's hand went to the back of his neck and he feigned an interest in a nearby book as to not further embarrass himself.

They made their way out of Lestrade's office and halfway down the corridor with the tension ever remaining.

"Well, he seemed an interesting bloke," John offered as a tenuous conversation starter.

"Yes he is indeed."

As they descended the stairs, they were both thankful to see that Anderson was no longer manning the reception area so they could make their way quietly away without too much of a fuss. Slipping back into the broom room, John swiftly relocated the small door they had entered from and was soon pulling himself along the tunnel and back towards the poisoned world.

Sherlock hesitated a little before following John, his mind swimming with confusion. He needed to clear his mind and the best way to do that would be to return to 221B and play his violin until he was in a trance. Fate, however, had other plans.

Once he had escaped from the tunnel, he was faced with John.

"I think we should head back to 221B." John said before Sherlock even had a chance to open his mouth so instead he just smiled, nodding in agreement, and so the trip back began.

"What are you planning on doing with your research if the University approves it?" John asked.

"If? I didn't take it there to be verified, it's being published as we speak which means my time in London is done as I don't want to prolong my exposure to this disease anymore. I'm moving to the country. My brother has a small place out near Kent," Sherlock said, looking into John's eyes, "if you want to join me perhaps?"

John cast his eyes around the streets they were walking in; this city had once been beautiful but now where children should've been playing their bodies lay, forming barricades against the living. People were dying, people were going to continue dying and John didn't want to see any further decline. Unfortunately, Sherlock understood this silence and contemplation to be an unspoken no.

"It's absolutely fine if you don't want to," he said, "after all, you've not been around too long so I'm sure you'll get used to not being around me soon. I suppose you will have to come and retrieve your belongings from 221B before I go but I'm sure I can persuade my brother to let you stay if that's what you want-"

"Of course I'll come with you to the country! After everything you've discovered are you sure you'd let me stay in a place full of infected people, rats and fleas?!"

John was confused. Did he not mean anything to Sherlock?

"Oh yes! Of course you'll come with me, I just thought your silence was a no." Sherlock said, feeling more stupid than he had for a while.

"Great! We should go and grab our stuff then." John said, clapping Sherlock on the back by way of a small sideways hug that was only just acceptable to see in public. It was also only just acceptable for Sherlock who, strangely, felt as though he could fly.

Within the hour, all bags had been packed and they left their home to see a rather grandiose horse and carriage outside. It was a deep red colour, a colour that made the carriage look like it had been covered in sealing wax. The horses were in better condition than John had ever been in his entire life, you could smell the jasmine in the soap they'd been washed in. For a moment, John's mind returned to his luxurious bath and he realised that he had been pampered much like the horses had been. The vehicle was completely out of place with its surroundings and whilst many were too ill to notice the pretentious cart, those who did were as amazed as John. Only Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a breathy sigh and muttered something about 'tools'.

"Who did you say you say your brother was again?" John said, gaping at the masterful craftsmanship evident in the carriage, from the plush cushioning to the ornate ceiling decorations.

"I didn't and don't trust in these displays of riches, he's a royal pain in the arse!" Sherlock said sourly, loading their bags into the main compartment with them, ensuring they wouldn't be stolen by a desperate someone who would sell them to pay for more chickens to 'cure' their family.

In the first leg of the journey, Sherlock and John barely spoke, each too engulfed in their own thoughts. Sherlock was thinking about the plague and how much of a git his brother was whereas John hadn't managed to shake the memory of his bath and had been daydreaming of various scenarios that could've happened, many of which including a semi-nude Sherlock, causing a warm blush to spread not only across his cheeks but across his body.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked suddenly, eyes fixed on John, studying his reaction.

"Oh, er, just the past few days, you know!" John said, blushing darker and realising he probably now blended in with the carriage's colour scheme beautifully.

"Yes...me too." Should Sherlock tell him? Probably not. Was that going to stop him? Definitely, or at least for the time being, "I borrowed something of yours, I hope you don't mind..."

"What do you mean borrowed?" John's previous thoughts evaporated quite quickly, what had Sherlock found?

"Well you didn't need it and it was technically for me anyway."

"Stop stalling! What did you take, Sherlock?!"

At this moment, the driver made the careless mistake of running over a particularly large rock causing the carriage to jolt and sending John, who had been on the edge of his seat and ready to attack, flying into Sherlock in a most dramatic and inelegant manner.

When he opened his eyes, John saw Sherlock's stormy eyes looking back down at him, a thinly veiled emotion swirling inside them. It looked like attraction but John was dazed and couldn't fully tell. After blinking a few times, he became entirely conscious of where he was and slithered away from Sherlock who was just as confused as John. Blushing a brilliant shade of scarlet, he crossed his legs to conceal the excitement of his nether region where John had been merely seconds earlier.

After a brief silence, in which both men tried to regain their mental balance, Sherlock said, "it was the parcel."

"What parcel?"

"I took it. An old woman gave it to you on the way to the university remember? I took it. It was for me."

"Well obviously it wasn't if she gave it to me."

"It was a note for me from my brother. I have countless helpers throughout London, well I used to at least, a majority are homeless and much more open to bribery than other people."

"Why did she give it to me then?" John asked, wincing a little as the lump on the side of his head began to swell.

"To give to me and you succeeded!" Sherlock said before turning his attention once more elsewhere, "by the looks of it, we aren't too far from our destination."

John looked out of his window and saw hills for miles around. It was as if London didn't even exist and it was just him and Sherlock and the wilderness. After turning a corner, a cottage appeared out of the side of a hill, surrounded by woodland and with fields in front. It was spectacular with immaculate black beaming and a set of stable blocks and outbuildings.

"You're sure it's ok for us to stay here?" John asked, in awe at the building,"this place looks fit for a king!"

"Yes it's fine. Mycroft won't mind if it's what stops me getting the plague."

"He could've sent you anywhere for that but this place is beautiful."

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, John."

Once he had dropped them off, Sherlock allowed Percy, the coachmen, to graze his horses on the fields before sending him on his way again.

"Shall I send your regards to your brother?" He asked, bowing his head slightly.

"I suppose you ought to...stay safe, Percy!" Sherlock said.

"I will, sir."

Then he trotted off back down the road and was gone within minutes. Sherlock returned inside to see John investigating the living room.

"This is a lot more spacious than back home isn't it?" He said to Sherlock, inspecting a particularly large and cushioned love seat. He sat down on it and was immediately absorbed by the silken squashiness.

"Hmm." Sherlock uttered in a rather uncommitted way before wandering upstairs to look at the rooms. He'd never been to this house before and it was a lot smaller than the one his brother had sent him to last time, for which he wasn't sure if he was grateful or not. He decided after a quick look around the second floor that he was not grateful. The house had only one bedroom due to the obnoxiously large and pointless billiards room that was upstairs too. He had specified to his brother that he needed space for John and the bastard had sent him to a small, out of the way cottage with a love seat and king sized bed.

"John!" Sherlock hollered descending the stairs, "John, I need to-"

He stopped short as his eyes fell upon the image of John, asleep on the love seat, shoes tucked neatly away at the side. He looked so peaceful. Rather than waking his companion, Sherlock returned upstairs to run a bath for himself.

When John awoke, it was to the familiar smell of peppermint and lavender. The smell was coming from upstairs so John, in his dishevelled, sleepy stupor, drifted up to find the source. He peeked into the bathroom and saw Sherlock with his eyes closed, submerged in water. John was about to walk in when Sherlock emitted a small breathy grunt that went straight to John's crotch. What was he doing? Then John saw it. Sherlock's hand was moving slowly and steadily along his shaft, half-submerged in the sweet smelling water. John was glad for the door as he blushed furiously and let out a small gasp which only further constricted his throat. If Sherlock noticed, he didn't look like he had as he began to pick up pace with only a few telltale splashes to give it away. John wanted to run but his eyes couldn't stop watching and his mind couldn't stop racing. He wondered how it would feel to have those hands roam across his body, to have them stroke across his arms, to hold his body close to Sherlock's so he could feel every muscle, every inch of skin he could. Before he could become more aroused, John managed to tear himself away, allowing Sherlock the privacy he deserved. Feeling thoroughly flustered, John went to look around the top floor. He found, as Sherlock had, that there was in fact only one bedroom and he was conscious of every piece of clothing against his skin as the arousal ate at him more by the second. He needed them off so in a split second decision, he stripped down to his underwear and climbed into the bed. It was vast and very comfortable but John still couldn't shake his guilt at his arousal. Then with timing that couldn't have been more perfect, Sherlock strolled into the room, a towel hanging of his hips, hair still soaking and beaded with buds of water. His skin looked smooth and was blotchy in places as the bath had been a little too warm.

"Sorry I, er, didn't know you were in here," Sherlock began, his whole body flaming with embarrassment,"I'll go out now."

"Stay if you like," John said without thinking and regretted it immediately, trying to make it better with, "I won't look I promise." With that John turned over so he could see the view out of the window and not look back at his companion who was standing in all of his butt-naked glory. Now Sherlock moved with haste, poise and precision, or at least tried to. He tripped over the towel, ripping it from his body as he was stepping towards the bag containing his clothing. This bag was stationed at the end of the bed so he had to be careful to avoid John's peripheral vision with his new lack of a towel. He heard a quiet laugh coming from John and he couldn't help but laugh too as he searched for a pair of pants he could put on to cover his modesty. After a few seconds of rooting, he came across a skimpy pair of old pyjama bottoms and decided anything was better than nothing.

After the adrenaline from the rush dissipated into his system, Sherlock lay down on the bed which sighed a little as it supported his weight. He could feel John's agitation and so asked what was wrong.

"Nothing, I'm fine." John said, electing to ignore the primal urges fighting within him.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, propping his head on one shoulder, his entire body facing John, close enough to smell John's earthy smell.

"Yes, I'm-" John said, turning over but stopping early as he gazed at the short distance between himself and the man he had just seen pleasuring himself, "fine." His voice wobbled and he could hear the need in his voice. Sherlock was too close to him but he was irresistibly drawn to him. Instead of pushing himself out of the bed and away, he rolled over into the warmth of Sherlock, looking deeply into his eyes.

Out of no where, Sherlock descended down and kissed John, his eyes blinking shut. It was quick chaste kiss that was over too quickly for John who wriggled closer for more. Sherlock, however, drew back. John wondered what he'd done wrong.

"I know I'm good but I didn't think I was that good." Sherlock said, mischief glinting in his eyes.

"What do you mean 'that good'?" John asked, a little irritated at himself for responding how he had.

"This good," Sherlock whispered as his hand went to John's crotch which was sporting the erection he hadn't quite managed to shake off, "or was this here before I came in?"

John could only gasp before saying, "I think we should leave that for now and besides that was your fault anyway." He rolled away to find his bag and put on a loose shirt and trousers.

"How was it my fault?!" Sherlock asked.

"You were the one having a wank in the bath earlier." John said before kissing Sherlock on the head and exiting the room, leaving Sherlock flustered and smug, causing him to curl up into a ball and laugh into the covers until he fell asleep.


End file.
